Page 22 of Tempest

My mother once told me I fight for what I want in every aspect of my life except the one that involves love. It’s a hard truth to swallow, but I know that some battles aren’t worth waging. Some wars you are destined to lose.

Some things you don’t deserve, anyhow.

Me:

Sounds fantastic. Send me the

details and I can meet you there.

This is not a date; I mentally add to my response, then head to the kitchen to try my hand at double chocolate cookies.

“Coming,” I holler to whoever is knocking at my front door while I frantically try to figure out a way to pause. Not finding one, I drop the controller on my couch and rush to the door. “Gavin?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, stepping in and leaning against the jamb.

“Which would imply the answer is no.”

“Would it? It could just as easily be a yes.” He smirks, and like last weekend, it does something to me that I’m choosing to ignore.

“How?”

“Fifty-fifty shot that it was a yes?” He grimaces, charming as ever.

“It wasn’t.”

“But it could have been, and I wouldn’t have known had I not shown up.”

“In your experience, does this kind of bullshit work with women?”

“I don’t have much experience,” he says, and I nearly feel bad for asking. Of course he hasn’t; he’s been married since he was eighteen. He holds up a large bag in offering. My stomach growls, making him smile wider.

“I’m not dating you, Vaughn.”

“Who said anything about dating? It’s dinner between two people who grew up together, Quinn. I know you want to say yes.”

“To the food, yes. To you, I don’t know.”

“Fair enough. Let me feed you.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Let me in and I’ll show you,” he says in more of a question than a demand. My stomach rumbles again.

“Fine, but don’t think this will work again next time, Vaughn.” My intrigue, and hunger, apparently, overrule my disdain for his presence. I don’t hate Gavin. I never could, though I tried. It was only the circumstances I hated, and the pain that I felt alone in. I hated that the most.

“Deal.”

I open the door and step aside so my biggest mistake can walk through it. The smell of the food follows me as I lead him to the kitchen.

“I hope Thai food is okay? Without knowing your preferences or allergies, I ordered a variety figuring something would be safe.”

That’s surprisingly thoughtful. Or maybe it’s not, he always was before…until, well.

“Pad Thai and fried rice are both good options for me. I need to avoid gluten,” I answer as he takes out and opens box after box.

“Avoid or eliminate? Are you celiac?”

“No, just avoid. I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease recently. Apparently, gluten is the devil and I need to make it my bitch.” I pull the plates out of the cupboard while trying not to stare at him too much. He’s big and takes up a lot of space. And air. And attention. I can’t help but trace the lines of his body, taking in his casual outfit. It’s my job, after all. “Did you just roll out of a workout, or do you always dress down for dinner with…whatever the hell we are?”

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